


Tumor

by thebigbengal



Category: Kill Bill (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/F, POV Second Person, Vague descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-23 17:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15610944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebigbengal/pseuds/thebigbengal
Summary: The Cottonmouth bites her Black Mamba.





	Tumor

There are plenty of things you learn from this profession beyond just different ways to kill a man. How to vanish like fog and reappear with the swift motion of a knife, how to talk a mile a minute and still not say a peep, how to keep certain people close and cut off the rest like tumors. But most importantly, how to become indispensable. How to not be a tumor. A name on a list, written in red. You don’t just need to be good at what you do. You take the job and make the hit, no questions asked. Because you can’t afford to ask questions. You don’t qualify. You don’t have that power. The man that picked you out and keeps you close and gives you the cash because you’re so damn good has that power. You don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Not a hand that’s just as fast with a blade at your throat as you are with a gun. You’re not an idiot. You wonder if you might be faster, but why take the risk. He’d promised you’d get out and help you get the power he has. You’ve dreamed of that you’re whole life. A high incentive for a small job, right? And it’s not just you, but the other three by your side, and you’re certain that your target won’t put up a fight. How could she, being the way she is now, and when you take her by surprise like this?

  
Surprises. She liked surprises. No one hates predictability more than a person like her. Like you. You make a game of it. Who’s got the quickest draw and has the quietest footsteps? Who can get the drop on someone who’s got eyes on every entrance and exit? And you grow, constantly pushing the other up and up the ladder, testing each other’s limits, then making those limits shrink and shrink and shrink. You barely have limits anymore. You think that, then you see her in that long white dress, and you know what you need to do.

  
You can’t think of that right now. She’s a mark, a job, no exceptions. Tumors are tumors and they must be cut out. You don’t have room for that. You can’t afford that. You draw your gun.

  
You almost hope she has a loaded holster under that dress. You almost wish she’d draw that pistol and pull the trigger, but instead of empty clicks, you get a chest full of lead. And you’d make your little joke.

 

“Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids.”

  
And you’d laugh, and she’d laugh, and then she’d kill the rest of you bastards, and you don’t have to worry about finishing that job. About cutting out that tumor, because it already got you first.

  
But she doesn’t fight. Instead she cries and begs Bill to stop, to stop killing these men and women she doesn’t know half as well as she knows you, just like you’d expect. She looks to you and doesn’t say your name, but the crying doesn’t end. She begs without words.

  
Bodies drop like snowfall. The easy part is over. The four of you surround her and take your turns. Like the boss wanted, “Hurt her, but don’t kill her. That’s my job. Then you’re done.” Last one and done. You want to make this count. Put the face of someone else over hers. Boss Matsumoto, his bastard lackies, any other fucker you pushed a blade or bullet through in the decades you’ve done this sort of thing, over and over. Still, her blond hair and big, blue eyes keep coming through. You grow more frustrated.

  
Elle is rough. Rougher than usual. You hear a little chuckle seep out when she makes her first hit. Bud is efficient, hard but not too hard. Same goes for Vernita, but a little hesitant the first round. That quickly goes away. Then it’s on you, and you’re scared you’ll freeze.

  
_Scared. That’s a first._

  
That’s the last option. That’s not an option at all.

  
You don’t freeze, but put out as much power as you can, and smack her dead in the jaw with your boot. You’re almost impressed with yourself. She keeps whimpering and crying. She’s never done that before. When has she ever been this pathetic? This soft? Why can’t she fight back? Why can’t she give you that exciting flash in the eye and take you on with that pure strength you so admire? Where did that go? Why is she so useless?

  
_She’s a tumor, now, remember?_

  
You hit harder and harder with each thought that this person had somehow snuck their way into your mind. Into your life. Something you’ve kept so vacuum sealed and hidden away that no one could, or would dare, to set up camp. You hit harder and harder until you hear a stern, “That’s enough.” She drops to the floor, and you get a good look at each other. This is where you’re supposed to be proud, right? Your last job, and you gaze upon your work. You barely had to lift a finger compared to those other assignments. And better yet, you got the best of her. The drop of a lifetime. You think ahead, to everything you’ll have after this. Everything that isn’t her.

  
Bill walks on stage and says his lines. Your mind starts to wander back to your first meeting, your first kill together, your first spar, and cup of sake. Laughing at her awful Japanese, and making her sit down and read this whole paragraph, and correctly, god dammit. Talking about mom and dad for the first time in years, and crying on her shoulder because you know she won’t speak a word of this to the others. Not one word, or you’ll thrust your machete through her stomach. She laughs. And you never had the slightest interest in men or women, but seeing her in a tight black suit, or cocktail dress and pumps, makes you think twice on that. You wonder what it’s like to know her the way Bill did. To know every bit of her. You wonder where you went wrong.

  
You’re so lost in thought that you don’t even notice the gun going off, or the side of her head sprayed across the floor. You just head out and go home.

  
_Home. A funny thing to think about._

  
You don’t mourn a tumor. You don’t miss a tumor. You don’t regret a tumor. You do the job, take the hit, get the pay, no questions asked. Because you can’t afford to, but after today, you will. You’ll be making the hits, calling the shots, you’ll find others like her. Not exactly like her, but you can try. Try so hard, or just forget about her all together. That’d be easier. Now, with your new position, you can’t waste time on little things like that. You go through life, vacuum sealed once again.

 

You get a call. “Comatose,” he says. She’s alive. He tells you not to worry, because the odds of her waking up are slim to none. “Carry on,” he says. But she got the drop on you. Just as you’d expected. The tumor came back. You laugh.

 

“Silly rabbit,” you say to yourself, “Trix are for kids.”


End file.
